Courage Under Fire
by Bamboozlepig
Summary: Companion fic to A-12's "The Ordinary Day", the E! crew faces a deadly sniper. [NOW ENDED, SEE NOTE IN STORY] To the "author" who used this story & my unique details for their "story" on AO3/WWOMB: The next time you "borrow" from me WITHOUT getting my permission AND publicly citing my work as your source, I won't hesitate to take whatever action necessary to protect my hard work.
1. MINUTES TO HOURS: ROY Chapter 1

**IMPORTANT NOTE REGARDING THIS STORY:**

I'm declaring this story finished and am marking it as complete. I do sincerely apologize, for I know it's disappointing to those who are enjoying the story, but the muse has been firmly DOA on it since the last update posted to it and I hate leaving people to wonder when it'll ever get updated. This doesn't mean I'm giving up all hope of ever completing it, so I am NOT putting this story up for anyone else to finish, and I ask that others please respect that. Because people are still reading this story, I am not removing this fic from any of the sites I am on. Again, I do apologize for this and I gratefully thank everyone who has stuck with both me and these unfinished works over the years, I've appreciated the support and patience everyone has had with me.

**DISCLAIMER**: Adam-12 and Emergency! are the property of MarkVII/Universal and no copyright infringement is intended with the publication of this piece. The picture used for the cover comes from the _Adam-12_ episode "S.W.A.T.". **ALL ORIGINAL STORY CONTENT IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION. **Story may contain graphic language/violence/adult situations, therefore reader discretion is advised. **In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.********  
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This is in response to Ginger's vignette challenge to write a short story around the quote below and it is a companion piece to a crossover fic I wrote and posted on the Adam-12 site entitled "The Ordinary Day". Any continuity goofs between the two stories are my fault, it's a bit hard at times to get the two pieces to sync up properly.

COURAGE UNDER FIRE

_"Life comes with no guarantees, no time outs, no second chances_."—Unknown

_MINUTES TO HOURS: ROY_

_**TICK, TICK, TICK…**_

Five minutes.

It's only been five minutes.

_Five._

_Lousy._

_Goddamned._

_Minutes._

Seems like an eternity.

An eternity between the initial 'man down, possible heart attack' call we were dispatched on while at Rampart Hospital, to…to…

This.

This _hell._

Dante's _Inferno._

A battlefield, that's what it is. A hellish battlefield. Not in a foreign country. In Los Angeles. The city of angels. La-La Land. Whatever you want to call it, it's HERE, and not over THERE, across an ocean or a continent.

And there wasn't even any time to _react_, to comprehend what we were seeing in front of us as we rolled up at the scene in the Granite Park area, for one second we were squinting out of the windshield at what gruesome scene lay before us, with bodies lying bloody in the street and people screaming for help and the stench of cordite and blood and dust thick in the air, and then the windshield…

It was gone.

It exploded…imploded...in on us, raining shards of smoked safety glass all over us in diamond-glinting twinkles and one of us…don't remember who…at least grasped the basic concept of what was happening and yelled "SHOOTER!" and we bailed out the passenger side of the squad in a mad-dash scramble for our lives.

And we didn't even have time to stop and think, stop and catch our breaths, stop and take stock of the situation, for on the sidewalk about fifteen feet away from us, a wounded woman was crawling towards us, crying, begging us to help her, her face bloodied, and we crawled towards her on our hands and knees, trying to use the squad as a shield, but she never made it, we never made it, a silent bullet hit her, shaking her like a rag doll and she collapsed in a heap on the pavement, blood seeping, creeping across her floral print blouse, the pleading look still on her face but her eyes were chilly dead, so cold, so lifeless…

So accusing.

Johnny had leaped to his feet to try to grab her, but _pop-pop-pop,_ the red light bar atop the rig shattered into a million little pieces, raining bits of plastic and metal and glass down on us as more bullets smashed the headlights, puncturing the two tires on the driver's side of the squad, taking the side view mirror off on that same side in a very clean shot, and with a yelp, Johnny dived back to the pavement as the bullets kissed puckers into the metal hood of the rig.

And around us, we could hear the panicky cries and wails of frightened people in the green-grass park behind the stone wall, the moans of the injured, sobbing, weeping, so much crying, so much pain, so much blood…

So much death.

And so we sit here, huddled up on the pavement at the relative safety of the rear dual wheels of the rig, the two of us the best damned paramedics on the Los Angeles County Fire Department, and we can't do a thing to save the people in Granite Park, in the street around here.

Not a goddamned _fucking_ thing.

We're as trapped as they are, pinned down by a madman on the roof of the office building across the way, the madman who holds Death in his hands.

And we're supposed to fight Death.

Or at least give the victims a fighting chance.

And we can't even do that.

I cast a glance up the street where Big Red sits parked, staged at a safe distance from here, out of the line of fire, out of danger, out of sight of the panoramic Hell that is before us, and I…I…

_Hate them._

My crewmates from Station 51, Captain Stanley, Mike Stoker, Marco Lopez, and Chet Kelly.

I hate them.

Just for this moment, anyway.

We arrived on scene first, they arrived last.

Lucky bastards.

At least where they're at, they're safe, they don't have to see what lies before us, they don't have to smell the stench of blood and death, they don't have to feel the same fear we do as we watch with horrified eyes, the silent bullets taking victims down like ducks in a shooting gallery, the scene made even more macabre and scarier by the fact that you can't hear Death as it's being fired, for he's using a silencer to mask his evil deeds. Never has there be a wider gulf that exists than the one that stretches a block-and-a-half away from where we sit, a veritable continent between safe haven and sheer horrific hell.

It's trite, it's redundant, it's stupid of me to keep using that word 'hell' to describe this, but…I'm at a loss for words otherwise. So 'hell' it is.

I look down at my watch, my eyes tracking the small gold second-hand as it sweeps past the minutes, ticking time off in oh so tiny increments, the sun beating down on the dead woman sprawled a few feet away from us, shining as if it's…it's…

Just another ordinary day.

Which it was.

Just about five…no, now seven minutes ago.

An entire lifetime between our former sweet innocence and ignorance, to the cold harsh reality of the here and now, the two of us silently wondering if we'll make it out of this ghastly arena alive, wondering what lies beyond it if we do, in the eternity of the forever-after.

"How long's it been?" he asks at my side, scrubbing a shaking hand down his face. His uniform is soaked dark blue with sweat, his face pale, eyes rimmed wide with fear.

"'Bout seven minutes," I reply, raising a gritty palm to swipe at the sweat slipping down my face, my own hand shaking as I do. My uniform is soaked dark blue, too, the white t-shirt I wear beneath it sticking uncomfortably to my skin. Even though we sit in the shade of the rig, the pavement beneath our butts is hot, baked by the sun that shines innocently overhead, totally unaware of the carnage going on beneath it.

That lucky ol' sun.

"Shit," he hisses out between clenched teeth, thunking his head back against the wheel-well of the squad in mute frustration. "Seems like longer." He fidgets restlessly next to me, fingers picking nervously at the leather strap of the HT that's looped around his wrist, our only lifeline to the world beyond the expanse of Granite Park, the fear and the shock and the horror of what's happening driving my normally loquacious partner silent for once.

I glance over at him, the first time I've really looked at him since we bailed out of the rig wearing the windshield on us. There's pinprick dots of drying blood spotting his face here and there, small cuts from the shards of glass, and I know I wear much the same on my own face, for not all the moisture I feel there is sweat. Then I look past him to my crewmates stationed up the street, Cap pacing, worrying his way back and forth at the side of the engine, the skunk stripe of his helmet glinting bright in the sun, as gathered in a clump around him, stand the other three men, our comrades in arms. I don't need to be close to them to see that they're wearing the same look of despairing hopelessness, for they don't like it any more than I do that they're trapped up there and we're trapped down here. This is as bad as a three-alarm fire in a fireworks factory…maybe even worse. Fire is dangerous, unpredictable, and you can never be sure which way the flames are going to eat and chew next, but right now, the man on the roof with a silenced rifle is infinitely more dangerous than any flames could be, for with fire, you at least stand a pretty good chance of making it out alive if you use your head, but here…that man holds the power between life or death in his hands and he's clearly not afraid to use it. Ain't no one that can outrun a bullet..one shot will kill you dead where you stand, and that's the fear that curdles cold in our guts.

I rub a hand across my nose, trying to rid it of the sharp peppery sting of cordite and the coppery-sweet stink of blood, the memories of another battlefield in another foreign country revisiting me, the horrors of war impressed upon a kid still learning about the vagaries of life, young and innocent when he was sent over there, old and bitter and cynical when he came back. The sight of so many young lives dying in a useless, futile war will do that to a man. And this brings it all back to me in a cold-crashing, blood-thumping, stomach-churning rememory of the marshy sour stink of rice paddies, the heavy thwupping of the Huey chopper blades as they evacced the moaning wounded out, the harsh metallic zip of a body bag being closed over yet another man we could not save. No, it's not something I wish to relive, yet here on an ordinary street on an ordinary day, I am, thanks to the madman on the roof with a gun in his hands.

The smells set my stomach to rolling, bile rising high in my throat, choking me, and I swallow hard, willing it to stay where it's at, taking shallow breaths through my mouth and nose as I lean my head back against the cool metal of the squad, closing my eyes, trying to think of anything but battlefields and bodies and blood. I haven't puked at a scene for a long time, and I ain't about to break my record now.

He casts me a knowing look, a concerned hand finding its way to my shoulder. "'Nam?" he asks quietly, for I've not talked much about my service as an Army medic on the front lines over there because I don't wish to visit my own horrors on a friend…after all, for there are some things a man should keep to himself, and Vietnam is one of them. But Johnny knows enough about me to know some of my secrets, or at least what little bit I've revealed to him here and there.

"Yeah," I grunt in a rasp, raising a shaking hand to swipe away the sweat once more, shifting on the pavement, trying to keep my ass from falling asleep.

"Hey, I know, let's play I Spy!" he chirps brightly with false gaiety, giving me a whitely lopsided grin that is utterly devoid of humor, for it will be a long time before humor returns to either one of us...a long, LONG time.

"What?" I say, flashing him a startled look. "Are you kidding me?"

"It might take your mind off of things," he shrugs. "I spy, with my little eye, something grey and lumpy," he intones sonorously. "And it's not brains, either," he adds with a tiny smirk, that gallows humor strong, for it's a necessary component those of us in emergency services employ in order to keep from going utterly and completely nuts by the tragedies and stupidities and downright cruelties we see on a daily basis. It's a vanguard, a shield, a saving grace that makes us laugh while we cry and rage inside at the frailties of human nature.

"It's the wall across from us," I sigh, running a hand through my hair.

"Aw man, you guessed it too fast," he complains. "Okay, lemme pick another one…"

"Johnny, please," I beg, holding a hand up to stop him. "Just…don't, okay? Don't."

We fall silent once more, time ticking onward, minutes marching slowly past as the cavalry arrives in the form of the Los Angeles Police Department, but we must hurry up and wait for them to mobilize their SWAT team and bring in their armored rig, while from the rooftop, the gunman continues to rain silent terror, the only way we know he's shooting people is by the tormented screams carried from the park on the breeze that plays innocently among the trees.

"I feel so fucking helpless," Johnny mutters after a bit. "We're supposed to save lives, Roy, not sit here and let people die." He fiddles with the antenna of the HT, having used it just a bit ago to update our rescuers on our situation, as he's been doing all along.

"Yeah, I know," I say tiredly. "But at this point, we can't do much about it. We're just as trapped as the other folks are, and until the cops get in here with their rig, we can't do a goddamned thing."

"Yeah, but it doesn't make it any less of a bitter pill to swallow," he says acidly, gesturing to the cold harsh reality of the futility of our job that lies dead on the sidewalk just a few feet from us, bleeding out onto the sun-baked sidewalk. "How many you think is in the park alone?"

"Hard to say," I reply. "On a nice day like this, people will be out enjoying the weather."

Then he asks an innocent question, one that startles me, taking my breath from my lungs in a whispering gasp, turning my blood to ice water in my veins. "Would Jo bring Chris and Jenny to this park?" he inquires thoughtfully, thoughtlessly, the goddamned stupid jackass.

And…_oh dear God_…I hadn't thought of that, I hadn't WANTED to think of that, I'd instinctively kept the thoughts of my family pushed firmly from my mind since the start of this ordeal, for I didn't wish to taint them with the horror of this day, I didn't want to consider the _what-ifs_ and the remote possibility that Jo might have brought Chris and Jenny to this park to enjoy the sunshine on this ordinary day, the three of them becoming my own loved ones trapped behind that grey stone wall, weeping and crying and fearful and maybe…maybe hurt, maybe…oh my god…_dead_ (NO! Goddamnit, NO!), and the bile rises swiftly in my throat and I can't swallow it back, I only have time to lurch sideways, bracing my palms on the pavement before I puke, spewing the sour contents of my stomach onto the curb and the street beneath the squad, and behind me, over the sound of the blood roaring in my ears and my gagging, I hear Johnny making concerned noises, feeling his hand on my back in a comforting patting gesture, and I…I…

HATE him.

I _hate_ him for bringing that idea up, for even _thinking_ of the possibility that I could not, _would_ not entertain, that my beloved wife and two innocent children were trapped in that park by a madman with a rifle on the roof across the way. Why, oh fucking God WHY did he bring that up?

When the spell subsides, I sag weakly back against the side of the rig, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, my breath panting hard in my chest, my stomach muscles aching from the wrenching force of throwing up.

"You okay?" Johnny asks, worry in his dark brown eyes.

"Goddamn you," I mutter angrily, hawking and spitting, trying to rid my mouth of the sour taste of vomit as I swipe at the hazy cataract of tears that bead my eyelashes.

"Whaddaya mad at me for?" he asks defensively.

"For bringing that idea up that Jo would be in the park with Chris and Jenny," I snap, spitting again.

"Yeah, but they're not, right?" he says, trying to sound reassuring. "I mean, this park is quite a-ways away from your house, so it's doubtful that Jo would bring the kids here, when there's closer parks than this one."

"Yeah, but I didn't want to think about that, damn it," I grumble. "Not even the remotest possibility that it could be true."

"I'm sorry, Roy," he says simply. "I wasn't thinking." And there is no note of false sincerity in his voice, for while apologies sometimes come hard to John Gage, who often hates to admit he's wrong at times, this time he means it, truly means it, from the heart. He knows how much my family means to me, therefore they mean that much to him.

And so I forgive him.

Because what else can I do?

He's my brother, the bonds of our brotherhood forged strong in our battles against flames, against death, against fear.

We sit in silence for a few moments once more, Johnny fidgeting restlessly next to me, for even in quiet moments he has that hyper current of electricity flowing through him, driving him to constant motion, for that's the normal state of his world…if you're always on the move, the shit can't hit you. He picks up his helmet laying on the ground next to him, shards of glass still twinkling on the brim as he turns it around in his hands. "Never thought I'd see the day when my city was turned into a war zone."

"Yeah," I nod. "But it's happened in other cities."

"But I never thought it would happen here," he repeats plaintively, trying to comprehend the horror of it all, for this is not like the other battlefields we wage war upon on a daily basis; this is not a medical call like a heart attack or an overdose or car wreck injuries that we must fight the good fight against with our own medicines and magic equipment and knowledge, nor is this is a fire that we must fight the good fight against with water and intimate memories of fires before that allows us to gauge and predict where the flames will eat at next…no, this is…is…

Something we could not know, something we could not prepare for, something we could not imagine even happening here.

But now it has, on this very ordinary day in this very ordinary park in this very ordinary city to very ordinary people.

And I know and he knows and we all know that the battle we will wage today will not be in black and white, but in hazy shades of grey and bright red blood, the lines blurred between right and wrong and what can and can't be done, none of us emerging from this the victors, not even the man on the roof, because it's a sure bet that when all is said and done, he won't be coming off of that roof alive.

"God, I hate that goddamned fucker on the roof," Johnny spits angrily, venom sharp in his voice, unusual for the generally gregarious Johnny, who doesn't even hate the dratted Chet, although no one would blame him if he truly did, for all the pranks Chet's pulled on him over the years. "If I had a gun, I'd try to pick the bastard off myself."

"You don't like guns, remember?" I point out.

"I sure as hell would like one now, Roy," he says acidly. He jerks a thumb in the direction of the office building. "I mean, look at the asshole..he's up there on the roof playing God, picking and choosing who gets to live and who dies down here, and it's just not fair…what gives him that right to do that?"

"The rifle in his hands, that's what," I tell him, matching him bitter for bitter, sour for sour, hatred for hatred, for what good is a battlefield if you cannot hate someone on it?

"I'd be judge, jury, and executioner, all rolled into one," Johnny continues, a grim smile lighting his face as he thinks what I wish myself. "Goddamned gas chamber is too good for the bastard if they take him alive."

"Amen to that," I say, giving him a grim smile of my own, for even though we're in the business of saving lives, ain't no God in no Heaven _anywhere_ that'd fault us for thinking that. "I'd pull the trigger on the asshole myself if they'd let me."

Silence settles on us once more,_ tick tick tick,_ the minutes turning to hours, or so it seems, the silence only broken by the radio traffic on the HT, the call and response as our rescuers ask questions of us and Johnny answers them as best he can. Each of us are lost in our own thoughts...what his are, I cannot say, but mine are simple...I want to live see my family again. Finally Johnny speaks to me once more. "I've tried praying, Roy," he says softly, mournfully, a confession of the soul of the truly damned, which is what we are at this point. "And I can't. Nothing comes to me. I just keep thinking of those people trapped in the park and on the street, needing help but not getting it, and I can't think of anything to say to God, except 'Fuck you and the horse you rode in on'." He gives me a worried look. "Think I've jinxed us by thinking that? Think God will hate me?"

"No," I grunt. "I've been thinking that myself, Junior." I scrub a hand down my face, my palm sliding slick with sweat, gritty from pavement dust. "In fact, at this point, I am wondering if there even IS a God, ya know?"

"Yeah," he barks shortly, bitterly, then he leans his head back against the metal wheel-well, closing his eyes. "Roy?" he asks in a small voice so unlike his usually boisterous tone.

"Yeah?"

"Would you think less of me if I told you right now I was really afraid…I mean, really_ really_ afraid?" His tone holds that childlike fear of the monsters under the bed, of the dark, of giving a speech in class without any pants on, all twisted and gnarled and chewed into the manlike fear of what we're facing, the uncertainty, the waiting, the unknown…

Death.

"Only if you don't think less of me for the same thing, Junior," I tell him, for honesty is the best policy and hell, if we're gonna die out here, we might as well unburden our souls and confess the deepest fear we share.

"I mean, we've been in some tight situations before, but this is…" His voice trails off and he swallows hard, his brown eyes filled with fear as they meet mine. "I don't know if we're going to get out of this alive, Roy." Quiet desperation flickers in his voice as he clearly hopes for me to reassure him, give him something to cling to, some sort of faith, a sign, a word…anything, to tell him we're going to survive this and go on to live long and productive lives.

But I know…and he knows…that would render me a false prophet, for I cannot bolster him with a faith I don't feel myself. "Yeah," I say, and I hope he can forgive me for not giving him anything to go on.

He draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, resting his chin atop them as he watches the activity up the street, the rescue mission that is FINALLY getting underway. "But, I guess I should be thankful for one thing," he sighs ruminatively, reflectively.

"What's that?" I ask, for I'm not sure in this urban war zone, there's too much to be thankful for, save for our lives.

He looks over at me, that lopsided grin flashing on his face. "Could be worse," he chuckles, the sound odd in this eerily spooky atmosphere. "I could be stuck sitting here with Chet."

I think on that for a moment, the incongruity of the Phantom and his Pigeon being stuck together in such a life-or-death situation as this, and I feel a small smile working its way across my face, a small bubble of laughter welling up inside of me, for I can well imagine that whatever hell this is right now for Johnny, it would be made a thousandfold worse if he were forced to endure it with his merry prankster, the two of them squabbling and bitching and griping about each other's idiosyncracies, driving one another nuts as they awaited rescue. "Yeah, you're right, Junior," I chuckle myself, and at that moment, I realize…I _realize_…

That Johnny and I, we're gonna be okay, no matter what.

As long as we stick together.

Yeah.

Together.

And that's at least one thing I can guarantee.


	2. THE INGLORIOUS BATTLEFIELD BEFORE US:CAP

**ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION. This story may contain graphic language/violence/adult situations, therefore reader discretion is advised. **In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.****

COURAGE UNDER FIRE

_THE INGLORIOUS BATTLEFIELD BEFORE US: CAP_

I watch the inglorious battlefield before me that is playing out on squares of cream and brown, a battle that has pitted the witless Chet Kelly against wit-filled Mike Stoker in a fight for bragging rights and pride, not to mention five bucks that was made as a bet between the two as to who would win. The morning chores are done and the crew is enjoying a bit of down time right now, save for Marco, who is busy fixing lunch at the stove behind us. It's been a quiet start to the day so far, with only a couple of minor medical runs, and Johnny and Roy have taken advantage of the lull to make a supply run to Rampart. I've finished up the daily paperwork required of me as Captain, and while I could find something else to do that's officious and Captain-like, I've decided to watch the chess game instead, it's infinitely more interesting than any boring old paperwork, especially considering it's between jackrabbit-impatient Chet and turtle-thinking Mike. As to who will win the match, my money's riding on Stoker, but then again, Chet could come from behind and win the game in a Cinderella story…but the likelihood of that REALLY happening is about the same as it snowing in L.A. in the summer.

"Man, willya hurry up and make your move?" Chet complains, sighing heavily and dropping his head into his hands with great aplomb, and sure enough, it's officially _on_, Chet trying to goad his opponent into making a hasty move, a tactic that works quite well on easily baited Johnny, but not so well on Mike or Roy, for they're the deep thinkers of the crew and given to carefully weighing out every single possible move and its benefit or detriment to the game. "It's _chess_, Mike, _not_ a life-or-death decision here. You pick up one of the little pointy pieces and put it somewhere else, it's as simple as that."

Mike, his chin cupped in his hand, raises an eyebrow. "I know where I'm _gonna _put one of the little pointy pieces if you don't hush up and let me think, Kelly." That elicits a snort of derision from Chet and I put a hand over my mouth to hide my grin, for it's amusing to hear such a threat coming from the normally laconic and mellow Mike Stoker, who's so adverse to violence, he'll actually try to shoo a fly out the open door, rather than killing it with a fly swatter.

"You guys better hurry it up," warns Marco, standing at the stove and stirring something delicious-smelling in a pot. "Lunch is almost ready and I need to set the table."

"What are we having?" Chet asks.

"Leftovers," Marco tells him succinctly, and the three of us seated at the table exchange wary glances of unease, for Marco's 'leftovers' could mean anything from last night's meatloaf to that large hairy green wad of crap that Marco SAYS are avocados, but look suspiciously like something that has escaped from one of Chet's horror movies and taken up residence at the back of the fridge, just waiting for the right moment to leap out and devour us, feasting on our brains. Whatever it is, I swear to God I saw it moving this morning, and I eyeball Chet for a moment, pondering offering him up as a sacrifice for its brain-hungry desires, but then I remember that it's _CHET_ I'm thinking of sacrificing and his brains would be like Chinese food…great, but not filling, and it'd be hungry again in an hour or so. Behind us, Marco reaches out to open a cupboard door and there's the familiar sound of a spring being rapidly unsprung…SPROYOIYOING _SPLOOSH!_ and one of Chet's water bombs go off, drenching Marco. "CHET!" he yelps in irritation at the stocky little Irishman, grabbing a kitchen towel and wiping his face off. "Why didn't you tell me you had one of your stupid water bombs rigged up in that cupboard, you jerk?"

"Sorry, pal, it was meant for Gage," Chet chuckles at the sight of his sopping wet fellow lineman. He spreads his hands wide in apology. "But hey, that's what you get for fixing us leftovers for lunch, pal."

Marco tosses the towel at Chet and stalks off to go change his uniform, muttering sourly under his breath.

"Don't you ever get tired of rigging those bombs up?" Mike asks.

"Meh," Chet shrugs negligently. "I set 'em up 'cuz I love to hear Gage squawk when he gets hit."

"Yeah, he sounds just like the parakeet I had as a kid, scolding whenever my little brother pulled his tailfeathers…_AWWWKK! chee chee chee!_" Mike observes rather aptly, and I can't help but chuckle at Stoker's rather apt personification of the hyper-kinetic John Gage, for he's nailed Johnny's character perfectly in a nutshell.

"Nah, Gage is the Pigeon, not the Parakeet," Chet says.

"Yeah, but Johnny's also like a parakeet too," Mike continues. "Think about it, Chet. When he's prattling on about one of his schemes or he's thoroughly pleased with himself over something, he's all cheeky and cheerful and cocky…_breeeep! Pretty bird, pretty bird, who's a smart little birdie boy? Johnny is, that's who!"_

"Man, you named your parakeet _Johnny?_" Chet snorts.

"No, his name was Petey," Mike tells him. "And he really knew how to talk, believe me."

Chet shakes his head. "I'm amazed it even learned how to talk from someone like you, Stoker. I mean, it's not like you're the world's biggest chatterbox. Most days we're doing good to hear more than two words outta you."

"I have two words for you, Chet," Mike tells him with a victorious smirk as he moves his chess piece on the board with a decisive gesture. "Check and mate." He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers. "I win, Kelly. Pay up the five bucks."

"That was _three_ words, Stoker, _not_ two," Chet complains sourly as he grudgingly fishes in his pocket for his wallet. He withdraws a five dollar bill, but doesn't hand it over to Mike, his fingers clutching the folded bill tightly. "Hey, wanna play again, double or nothing?" he asks hopefully, clearly intending to recoup his loss and make a gain to boot.

"No," Mike says firmly, reaching over and snatching the five dollar bill out of Chet's hand with a crisp snapping sound. Folding it up, he tucks it carefully into his shirt pocket, shoving his chair back from the table and standing up, heading over to the coffeepot for a fresh cup of joe.

Marco returns to the kitchen with a clean, dry uniform shirt on. "Chet, one of these days, you're gonna get someone like Cap with one of your stupid water bombs, and then whaddaya gonna do?" he asks as he resumes his place at the stove, picking a spoon up and commencing stirring once more.

"Permanent latrine duty until the end of his career here, _that's_ what he'll be doing," I tell Chet with a dark look.

"Why Cap, I'd NEVER water bomb you, I swear on my mother's grave," Chet tells me innocently.

"Your mom's still alive," Mike points out.

"Okay, on my mother's future grave," Chet offers. He jabs a finger at Mike as Mike sits back down at the table. "Hey, if Johnny reminds you of a parakeet, ya know what you remind me of?" he asks.

"Whatever it is, it'd better be something good, Kelly," Mike scowls.

"Oh it is, babe, it is," Chet assures him with a nod. He waits a beat, making sure we're all listening before he proceeds. "You remind me of a monkey."

"Yeah, well, you remind me of a jackass," Mike lobs in return. "And I don't mean the four-legged kind, either."

"No, no, no," Chet says, shaking his head in mild dismay. "You didn't let me finish, Stoker. I was watching tv the other night and guess what show I was watching?"

"_Little House On The Prairie_?" asks Mike. "'Cuz you secretly wanna put on a long skirt and a sunbonnet and go live in a sod house?"

"_Kojak_?" Marco asks from his spot at the stove. "'Cuz you secretly wanna shave your head bald and solve crimes while sucking on lollipops?"

"_Scooby-Doo_?" I ask. "'Cuz you secretly wanna trick your van out as the Mystery Machine and ride around in it with a big talking dog and solve goofy mysteries?"

"No, it wasn't any of those shows I was watching, you jerks," Chet tries to muster up the witheringest, most indignant glare he can give all of us, which is designed to put all of us in our places, but rather looks like Chet needs to go use the bathroom and fast. "For your information, I _happened_ to be watching the show _The Monkees_ and I thought that Mike Nesmith on the show is a lot like you, Stoker."

"I don't wear a wool cap or sing songs or get into wacky antics," Mike points out.

"Yeah, but Nesmith is quiet and introspective, just like you, Mike," Chet tells him.

"I'm surprised you even know what the word 'introspective' means, Chet," Mike snorts.

"Chet, ya wanna get introspective and clear off the table and then get it set so we can eat?" Marco asks.

"You're doing the cooking, Marco, you should set the table," Chet whines pitifully. And the two of them launch into a minor gabbling squabble as Mike and I watch on with amusement, our eyes meeting and we exchange a grin, for we know that the friendship the two linemen share is under no threat whatsoever from this little quarrel, for such is the nature of crew I've helmed for the last four years…they may all piddly-pick at one another from time to time and get on one another's nerves, but I couldn't wish for a tighter, more close-knit band of brothers than what I have right here at Station 51. They all have their very different personalities, from the merry prankster Chet, who loves to goad his favorite pigeon of John Gage into reacting to his hijinks, just to hear him squawk like Mike's childhood parakeet; to the optimistically gullible Johnny, who never fails to fall for Chet's pranks. Marco's the genial and easygoing fellow who gets along with everyone, while gentle Roy often serves as a sounding board of reason, not to mention he often tempers down some of Johnny's bright flamboyancy, so the quiet senior paramedic is a good match to the clumsy puppy-dog enthusiasm of Gage. Stoker's the enigma of the group, so quiet and reserved that it often seems he's carefully parceling his words out, rationing them against a future verbal drought, and you can tell there's often a lot of heavy thinking going on behind those impassive blue eyes. Then there's me, the leader of this motley crew, and I pride myself on being accessible to my men, not to mention trying to be on the same level as they are, invoking rank only when necessary, for I knew the whispers surrounding the departure of Captain Hammer and how he was always standoffish with them, rarely allowing himself to mix with them. And as varied personalities as all of us are, one thing is always certain about us…no matter what, you can count on each of us to back each other up wholeheartedly, even in the hardest of times and most difficult of situations, and every single one of us is prepared to lay down our lives for each other without hesitation, if it should ever come to that.

The tones drop then, cancelling lunch and interrupting the argument between Chet and Marco as LACoFD dispatcher, Sam Lanier, pages us out to assist Squad 51 on a 'medical unknown, man down, possible heart attack' at the Granite Park area, and we scramble for the engine as I hear Squad 51 acknowledge that they're responding from Rampart where they went to restock their supplies. "You wait 'til we get back, Chet," Marco warns as the two hustle into their turnout coats. "I'm gonna get you for that water bomb."

"I'm telllin' ya, it was meant for Gage, Pal," Chet defends, slapping his helmet onto his head with a hollow _thwack_-ing sound that briefly makes me wonder if it was his helmet or Chet's hollow head that made the sound. He and Marco clamber into their jumpseats.

Their debate becomes muted as slipping on my own turnout coat and skunk-striped helmet, I climb into the cab of the engine next to Stoker, who's already seated behind the wheel, and as the bay door slides open, letting in the bright sunlight in bigger and bigger increments, the revolving lights on the truck bouncing off of the sides of the station, I pick up the mike and acknowledge the call, the engine grumbling happily and raring to go as it waits for the door to finish opening. Then, with a hiss of the air brakes, Engine 51 glides smoothly forward, the siren beginning it crescendo wail of eerie warning as we pull out of the station.

"I thought the Granite Court area is in the city's response district, not ours," Mike says as he skillfully steers the engine through busy noonday traffic.

"It's still being debated as to whose area it is," I tell him. "One part of it lies in the city's jurisdiction, the other part in county's. We'll deal with the call and if it's not ours, we'll notify the proper entity."

Suddenly, the radio crackles to life. "_**L.A. dispatch, this is Squad 51, we're taking on sniper fire at this call at Granite Court, send us help NOW!"**_ comes the staticky, panic-laced voice of John Gage.

Mike's eyes flick away from the road for a moment to meet mine in startlement. "What the HELL?" he asks as behind us, Chet and Marco twist in their seats, their attention drawn by the shrill alarm sounded in Johnny's voice, loud enough to be heard through the glass window that divides the driver's compartment from the linemen's jumpseats. "Did Gage just say they were coming under _sniper_ fire?"

Sam Lanier in the LACoFD dispatch center quickly responds back, asking for a repeat of Gage's traffic in a slightly stunned voice. And Johnny complies with that same breathless panic as before. _**"Dispatch, this is Squad 51, we are under fire from a sniper in the vicinity of the Granite Court/Granite Park area, we need help out here now! Keep Engine 51 out of this area, tell 'em to stage on the corners of Palmtree and Adamson, we don't know what kind of range he's got on that gun!"**_

And what I hear in his tone shakes me, for in the four years I've been Captain to these five men, I have NEVER heard Gage sound so…so _frightened,_ and he's been in some pretty goddamned tight spots before, including facing surefire death I don't know _how_ many times. I snatch the radio mike up in a trembling hand that is normally rock steady, even in the direst circumstances, for you don't get to be Captain by going to pieces at every little stressful incident. "Squad 51, this is Engine 51, we have a five minute ETA to your location and we'll be staging on the corner of Palmtree Drive and Adamson Avenue," I tell Johnny, sounding calm, despite the fact that my heart is pounding in my throat right now. "Are either of you injured?" I send up a silent prayer from between shaking lips that both Johnny and Roy are okay, that they were able to get to some sort of cover.

_**"Negative, Engine 51, just some minor cuts from the windshield exploding in on us,"**_ comes Johnny's still-rattled voice, a wave of relief washing over me at his news._** "But there's several casualties on the ground, from what little we can see. Get law enforcement out here pronto!"**_

Sam's voice breaks in. _"Engine 51, Squad 51, due to an ongoing incident in another part of the county, only one deputy has been dispatched to this call and he should be on the scene already. Engine 51, please confirm what you have when you arrive on scene and advise if you need further law enforcement assistance to your location."_

I key the mike. "Ten-four, dispatch, we'll advise what we have shortly, we now have about a three-minute ETA to the scene." I slam the mike back into the holder in frustration, for while I know it's departmental protocol that Sam cannot dispatch any further law enforcement help to the scene until it becomes clear what we are really dealing with, while he's waiting for my official report, my two men are in danger, damn it.

Next to me, Mike grips the steering wheel in white-knuckled fingers, hunching over it with thin-lipped, grim determination, as if he can get the engine there faster by sheer force of will, and I don't have to look to know that he has the gas pedal _floored_, the siren wailing out _Emergency! Emergency!_ _Get the hell outta the way! _as startled cars leap to the sides of the road, the speeding truck leaving violent eddies of dust swirling in its wake. Up ahead of us, a thin line of slow-moving traffic pokes along and Mike lays on the air horn with a heavy blast that drives me nearly deaf. "Move it or lose it, you goddamned morons!" he yells with uncharacteristically sharp vehemence that is understandable, considering the circumstances. The engine slows briefly as the cars tootle out of our way, then Mike tromps on the accelerator as soon as we're clear of the traffic, the engine leaping forward once more in eager response. In the jumpseats behind us, I see Marco and Chet trading tense looks…if they are not fully aware of the situation we're facing, they're at least aware that some big juju shit has hit the proverbial fan and we're all about to get the crapfilled fallout.

And after an eternity, we finally swing onto Palmtree Drive off of Morris Avenue, Mike taking the corner so sharply that I have to clutch the door handle tight in my sweating fingers to keep from sliding out of my seat, while Chet and Marco brace themselves in the back. We pull up to the corner of Palmtree and Adamson, the engine screaming to a lurching stop with a violent hiss of its air brakes and…

Oh.

My.

_GOD._

_It's a fucking war zone out here!_

"Oh sweet Jesus," Mike breathes in shock as we all scramble out of the engine and gather at the front of it, the four of us staring horror-struck at what lies across the stretch of roadway before us…bodies are scattered about the pavement like colorful heaps of motionless rags, and parked a-ways ahead of the red rescue rig is the black and white squad car of a sheriff's deputy, and I know exactly what happened to the deputy who was dispatched out here…he's dead, for he lies crumpled and unmoving on the cement next to the still-open door of his squad car, and I hope feverently that it's not Vince Howard that has been gunned down. At the passenger side of the red rescue rig sit my two medics, huddled up near the rear dualies, and Johnny lifts an arm in a half-hearted wave at our arrival, a gesture that seems rather macabre in light of what is before us.

"What is it, Cap?" Chet asks nervously, eyes darting from the scene to me and back again. "What's happened? Why aren't we going over there to help?"

"It's a sniper," Mike tells him quietly. "John and Roy took on fire when they arrived on the scene."

"Ohhh, shit," Chet mutters in astonishment, his eyes going wide as next to him, Marco crosses himself, his lips moving in a silent prayer.

I key the HT. "Squad 51, can you give me a status report?" I ask, my voice icily calm, while inside I feel like I've shattered into a million little pieces. "Are you for certain we're dealing with a sniper out here?"

_"Yeah, it's definitely a sniper we're dealing with, Cap, we can tell by the injured woman he just shot and killed a few minutes ago as she was trying to crawl to us for help,"_ comes Johnny's frustrated reply. _"Near as we can tell, bastard's up on the roof of that office building across the way, but he's using a silencer on that gun, we don't hear any shots ringing out, we just hear the people in the park screaming every now and then, presumably when he shoots at them."_

"Okay, pal, just sit tight until we get some law enforcement help out here to get you two out of there," I tell him.

_"Cap, it's not like we can really go anywhere anyway,"_ Johnny sighs. _"Bastard takes a shot at anything that moves out here. So Roy and I are playing Statues…you know, staying as still as we possibly can."_

"L.A. dispatch, have you copied that traffic?" I ask Sam Lanier. "It's confirmed that we are dealing with a sniper out here at the Granite Court call and we need immediate response from law enforcement."

_"Engine 51, I've copied all that traffic," _Sam's regretful reply comes over the radio. _"However, the LA County Sheriff's Department is still tied up with another incident and can only spare one other deputy to assist you. He has been dispatched and should be on the way to your location. Do you wish me to contact the Los Angeles Police Department and see if they can send officers your way?"_

"Sam, call up the National Guard if you have to, but get us help out here," I tell him in sharp irritation, trading an annoyed glance with Mike. "Advise responding patrol units that we do have an active sniper situation and they need to steer clear of the Granite Court area, and they need to stage here at the corner of Palmtree and Adamson, that's where the command post will be set up at."

_"Ten-four, Engine 51, I'll contact LAPD and get them on the way,"_ Sam replies.

Then there is only the hiss of static on the radio as the four of us stare at the scene in front of us with shocked eyes, the incongruity of what we see seeming so obscene, the divide between the normal-everyday reality on the south side of Palmtree Drive to the horrific carnage that lies on the north side a huge vast gulf that is wider than any blue swirling ocean, but as narrow as four lanes of traffic that continues to move complacently from east and west, unaware of the terrible drama playing out over that short stretch of sun-baked cement. Life goes on here on this side, while life has come to a screeching cacaphonious halt of screams and terror and blood and death on the other side. Hell, usually the arrival of a fire truck in a neighborhood elicits some looky-loos, but people are oblivious to our presence, just as they're oblivious to what's going on just across the street from us, and it doesn't seem possible for that to even make sense.

Next to me, Chet looks up and down the street for oncoming traffic, then squaring his shoulders firmly, he starts to cross it.

I reach out and snatch him back by the collar of his turnout coat. "Kelly, where the hell are you going?" I bark at him.

He gestures to the figures of John and Roy seated next to their rig. "Over there," he says defiantly, anger flashing in his blue eyes. "Somebody's gotta do _somethin_', Cap, that's Gage and DeSoto that are trapped out there."

"So you're gonna march into that sniper's line of fire yourself to try to save them?" I demand, giving his collar a sharp shake. "Don't be stupid, Kelly."

Chet turns around to face me. "Okay, so we drive the engine in there to get them out," he says, and at his offer, a look of abject horror crosses Mike's face at the notion of sacrificing his beloved Big Red to a sniper, then the look is quickly replaced by one of steadfast resoluteness and he nods affirmatively, for while it's a big sacrifice, it's one he's willing to make if it would save John and Roy.

And, as goddamned stupid and farfetched as Chet's idea is, for a brief moment, I do consider employing it, but quickly dismiss it when I think of how easy of a target we'd be, offering ourselves up like ducks in a shooting gallery by driving that huge and ponderous engine into the sniper's field of fire. I shake my head. "Nice idea, Chet, but it won't work. It's too big of a target for the sniper and we'd very likely get ourselves killed by doing that."

Chet's eyes slide away from me and focus on Mike. "Stoker, you willing to drive Big Red into the battlefield out there to save Johnny and Roy?" he asks with a jut of his chin.

Mike shakes his head. "No, Chet, Cap's right, it's too dangerous. No sense in giving the sniper more victims to shoot at."

Chet turns to Marco then. "Marco? You up to riding in there with me? I'll drive and put myself at the highest risk of being shot."

"No, Chet," Marco says gently. "It's a nice idea, but listen to reason, my friend. It won't work, it's too damned dangerous and we're liable to get ourselves killed in the process. We don't want to give the killer any more casualties."

Kelly looks away then, his eyes swinging back to the carnage on the street. "Okay," he nods, chewing on his lower lip, a contemplative expression on his face. "Okay," he nods again, then he turns and stalks decisively towards the driver's side of the engine. "Guess it looks like this'll be a solo rescue mission then." His fingers close around the door handle of the rig and he starts to open it, but quickly the three of us are on him, pulling him off with exclamations of sharp dismay.

"Kelly, don't be a fool!" I growl at him, grabbing him by the front of his coat and shaking him hard. "You're not driving the rig in there to rescue John and Roy and that's _final_, damn it!"

"Yeah, but we gotta do _somethin'_, Cap!" he barks at me, anger darkening his face. He gestures futilely to the street before us. "I mean, those are our _brothers_ out there, are we just gonna sit here and let them _die?_"

"No, we're gonna sit here and wait for the cops to arrive, and they'll be the ones to go in and rescue Gage and DeSoto, NOT us!" I tell him sharply. "The cops are better equipped to handle this kind of situation than we are, they've got the resources to deal with it that we don't!"

"Goddamnit!" he snarls, twisting out of my grasp and turning to slam a fist into the side of Big Red, making Mike wince at the sound. "I feel so fucking helpless, just sitting here doing nothing!"

Marco puts a firm hand on his shoulder. "Listen, Chet," he soothes. "The cops are on the way, can't you hear the sirens? They'll be here shortly and it won't be too long before Johnny and Roy are pulled out of there, trust me."

"And if you look, Chet," Mike offers, his eyes running a surreptitious glance over the spot where Chet struck Big Red, searching for any mark left behind. "You can see that Johnny and Roy are safe where they're at, and they both know to stay there until help arrives."

"Remember, Chet," I tell him gently. "If you can keep a cool head when all others are losing theirs, you'll be a better man for it."

Chet's lips lift in a sneer. "Shit, that's nothing but a line out of a goddamned stupid poem, Cap," he says sullenly, and he skulks off to sit on the front bumper of the engine, taking his helmet off and playing it around in his hands like worry beads.

Mike gives me a questioning look, for normally I wouldn't let any of my crew backtalk me like that, they'd get reprimanded for the attitude and mighty damned fast, but I shake my head, for I can't fault Chet for wanting to wade into the line of fire to rescue our fellow brethren; I'd do the same goddamned thing myself if I knew I'd get away with it, and I know Mike and Marco feel the same way. Marco goes over to sit next to Chet on the bumper, but Chet leans away from him, wanting no companionship, even from his best friend, and Marco wisely gives him his space, retreating to the far edge of the bumper on the other side, the two of them staring morosely at the grotesque scene before them...the bloodied and still bodies in the street, our brothers huddled forlornly at the side of their rig, stuck in that hell until help arrives, the four of us helpless and useless where we stand across that great divide of four lanes of traffic.

"This is gonna be bad, you know," Mike says softly at my side. "And there's not gonna be a goddamned thing we can do about it, either. We're trained to fight on a different kind of battlefield, one of buildings and fires and accidents and medical calls, not one of gunmen and rifles."

I take off my helmet and run a hand through my sweat-dampened hair and unbuckle my turnout coat, letting it fall open, trying to cool myself from the noonday sun beating furiously down from overhead. "Yeah, I know," I tell him sourly. "We're the wrong kind of warriors out here today."

"I've seen this before, Cap," Mike says grimly, nodding his head at the carnage on the street. "At Ia Drang." He pauses a moment, his blue eyes darkening a bit in recall of his experiences during the Vietnam War. "It was pure fucking hell then, Cap, and it'll be pure fucking hell now."

"I know," I say, thinking of my own experiences in the Korean War. "I saw it at Heartbreak Ridge myself."

"It's a little bit different, though," Mike says. "Over there, it was a nameless, faceless enemy that we were fighting, and here…_here_, that gunman is a citizen, just like us, and he's taken up arms and declared war on everyone around him. You and I both know that there's gotta be a high casualty count in the park alone, given the fact that it's a nice day out and people are out enjoying it. And a lot of those casualties are bound to be kids, too."

"Yeah, but once the cops get here and set up a plan, they'll get him," I say, trying to reassure myself of that fact.

"Yeah, but how high of a toll is he gonna exact before they do?" Mike asks quietly. "No one's gonna emerge the victor here, Cap, the best we can hope for is to just survive this and still be standing at the bitter end." He shakes his head. "One thing's for sure…when it's all over with, we're definitely gonna be a lot older and wiser."

I don't answer him, the two of us falling silent as we stare at the horror in the street before us, the breeze dancing gaily about us and carrying before it the panicked cries and shouts of the people trapped in the park, and in the near distance, I hear the rapidly approaching sirens that herald the arrival of the cavalry. And I close my eyes then, bowing my head, my fingers tightening on the edges of my helmet as I pray the only prayer that will come to me, my lips moving silently over the words… _The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me down the path of righteousness for His name sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou annointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. __And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever, Amen. _And I hear three echoing 'Amens', making me realize that Chet, Marco and Mike have also been silently reciting the prayer with me, the only rote gesture of token comfort I can offer right now to my crew.

Opening my eyes, I gaze out at the inglorious battlefield that lies before us, and I know that Mike's right…

All we can hope for is to survive this hell and still be standing at the bitter end, emerging from this awful war that is being waged by a fellow citizen on our home ground, coming out of it alive.


	3. MICHIGAN J FROG: JOHNNY Chapter 3

**ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION. This story may contain graphic language/violence/adult situations, therefore reader discretion is advised. **In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.****

I don't own the poem quoted herein, it's by Walt Whitman. Michigan J. Frog is copyright Warner Brothers cartoons. Chapter contains use of a mildly racist term, no offense intended by its use, as it relates to Johnny's past and the way things were back then.

COURAGE UNDER FIRE

_MICHIGAN J. FROG: JOHNNY_

_It's mass chaos on a nuclear bomb level…there is the sound of gunshots, bloodied bodies lying everywhere, and I stare at the ghastly scene before me with horrified eyes, trying to comprehend what I see, then I spring into action, my training and instincts automatically kicking in. I rush frantically from body to body, searching for someone that has survived this, someone that still has a chance at life, someone that can be saved, but…_

There's no one to save.

They're all dead.

Every single one of them.

**Dead**.

_But like the saying goes, hope springs eternal, and so I continue to rush about, looking for survivors as more and more bodies pile up around me, seemingly with every blink of my eyes…is there someone alive?…is there anyone alive?…_

Is there no one alive?

No.

_We…no, __**I**__…am too late. I stand in the middle of the street, the air thick with the stink of blood and cordite and dust and death, surrounded by bloodied corpses that glare and stare accusingly at me with cold dead eyes, their dying breaths mingling into a hurricane whisper, uttering the words I have not heard for oh so long…_

Worthless.

Useless.

Good-for-nothing half-breed.

_I hear Roy's shout and I spin around, searching frantically for him amidst the pile of corpses, and I spot him near the engine, his back turned to me, a splash of bright blue against grey brains and white bone and red blood and black death. "Roy!" I shout in giddy relief, hurrying over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. If anyone can solve this mess, it'll be good ol' common-sense Roy DeSoto. "C'mon, man, ya gotta help me!"_

_And he crumples at my touch, his body falling away from my grasping fingers, a bullet piercing his badge before piercing his heart, leaving pockmarked silver against bright blue, against ominous red…_

_Against black sorrow._

_SO much black sorrow._

_For I stare in shock…_

_Because before me lie men that are oh so familiar to me, I know them, they're…they're…_

My brothers.

My friends.

Cap…Mike…Marco…Chet…and Roy.

_All of them._

Dead.

_Blood seeps and stains their pale canvas coats, their hearts pierced cleanly by bullets, their eyes wide open in horror and shock at what awful fate has befallen them, their mouths hanging slackly open in silent screams that no one will hear…_

_Except for me._

_Oh yes, I can still hear their dying whispers that they uttered with their last breaths echoing around me…_

Worthless.

Useless.

Good-for-nothing half-breed.

**YOU LET US DIE, DAMN YOU!**

_With an anguished moan that rips wrenchingly from my throat, I fall to my knees on the pavement, closing my eyes, scrabbling my shaking hands together as I pray…I pray to God, I pray to the Indian deities of my childhood, I pray to anyone who'll listen to me in a singular word that rushes garbled from between my trembling lips…pleasehelpmeohgodplease..._

And no one listens.

Not a single goddamned deity, not a single goddamned God.

**NO ONE.**

_And so I open my eyes, staring through a haze of tears as on my hands and knees, I reach forward, gently touching each man lying crumpled before me in the untidy heap of beige canvas and bright blue and flashing silver and crimson blood, their bodies still warm beneath my shaking fingers as I try in vain to close their eyes for them so I don't have to see their accusatory glares that ask me why in the fuck I didn't…_couldn't_…wouldn't save them from this terrible fate. After all, I owe them this final dignity because of my failure._

_"I'm sorry, Cap," I whisper as I press my fingertips lightly to his eyelids, bringing them down over brown eyes that are starting to cloud beneath his craggy brow. A few lines from a poem I had to memorize for school comes back to me in a brief blinding snatch and I find myself reciting them in a shaking murmurous tribute…_

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;  
>Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;<br>For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;  
>For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;<p>

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,

You've fallen cold and dead…

_And then I remember that the poem is about Abraham Lincoln's assassination and the irony hits me HARD, for Cap is…_was_…the spitting image of Abe Lincoln, and the words die in my throat as I look down at the face of the man who is…_was_…a wise and fair-minded leader, keeping a firm enough hand on the reins to let us know he was in charge, but keeping a gentle enough grip on them to let us know he was just an ordinary man like we were. Cap was the epitome of calm and collectedness during bad calls, whether it be a fire or an accident, keeping his cool even when one of his men was hurt, for what good is a Captain who goes to pieces in times of crisis…there's enough time for that at the hospital where the injured are taken. And Captain Stanley did his share of that, going to pieces at the hospital after one of us was hurt, for beneath that craggy, granite exterior lay a kind and tender heart. He would have gone to Hell and back for his men, no matter what. _O Captain, my captain_…my voice breaks on those words and I find I cannot continue. _

_Swallowing the hard lump in my throat, I turn to Mike, gingerly using my fingertips to lower his eyelids over his crystal blue gaze that stares sightlessly up at the sky. The quiet engineer is…_was_…always an enigma wrapped in a riddle and shrouded in mystery, but I knew one of his secrets, which I kept to myself, for I knew that it would seem at odds with the violence and the danger and the voracious wild excitement that is firefighting, but somehow not at odds with the man that was Mike Stoker. _

_He liked poetry._

_I found that out when I spotted him at poetry reading I was dragged to by a girl I was dating. Mike never saw me in the crowd, for we sat in the back of the coffeehouse, but I could see him, seated off to the side, held rapt by the occasionally crappy recitations in uneven iambic pentameter. It really didn't surprise me that Mike liked poetry, for anyone who loves the clean and sharply crisp lines of Big Red would find similar comfort in the clean and sharply crisp lines of words in rhythmic motion. And once during a shift when he was working on what I thought was engineering formulas in his spiral notebook, I caught a glimpse of what he was really writing and found it was a poem instead. I'd only seen the title and the first couple of lines or so before Mike shut the cover, but that he wrote poetry also didn't surprise me, for the unassuming engineer who was so often silent found his voice in the power of the pen, dancing with as fluid of grace there as he does…_did_…while manning the engine during a fire._

_I look to Marco next, the man who can…_could_…tell us dirty jokes in Spanish, who made the best Irish stew and beef enchiladas, who got along with everyone with genial good humor, who adored his Mama and his large family, who could be counted on to back you up when you needed it. He was always willing to lend a hand, and he would bring in goodies that his Mama had fixed for us to eat, considering us an extension of her beloved son. I close his lids over his dark eyes, whispering, "__Adiós, mi amigo, reste en paz"…_goodbye, my friend, rest in peace_._

_My hand wavers over Chet, the man who is…_was_…my nemesis, my bane, my albatross, my cross to bear, the proverbial pain in my ass…_

My friend.

_The Phantom did have a heart, after all, for that was evident the time we came back from the run where the young boy died after eating ant poison and Chet kept me from opening up the cupboard door where 'The Phantom' had rigged one of his water bombs. Most of his pranks were meant in good spirits and not intended to be truly malicious, and I think Chet pranked me because he and I were so much alike; he felt the need to separate us, to draw that line in the sand and then dare me to cross it. Truth be known, I always knew when he was setting me up for something, he got all smirky-twitchy and his eyes would take on a mischievous glint, and instead of calling him out on his tricks or truly getting really pissed at him, I squawked and fussed and took it like a man, because it was expected of me and because I wanted to let Chet have his moments of gloating triumph. Every station has a prankster and every station has a fool, and I was willing to play that gullible fool role because really, had the roles been reversed in another stationhouse, Chet would have been _my_ pigeon and _I_would have been the Phantom. And no matter how aggravating or annoying Chet could be, he was always there in a heartbeat whenever and wherever he was needed, no questions asked, you could COUNT on that. I gently close his eyelids over Irish blue eyes that will twinkle no more with merry deviltry or Phantom schemes, and I'm heartbroken to see such a good nemesis-slash-friend gone like this._

_There is one man left…Roy…my best friend, my brother…_I will NOT think of him in the past tense, I simply will NOT_…and I find I cannot meet his dead-eyed gaze, for it's a death-knell reality that I'm not ready to face just yet, if EVER. I turn away, hot tears spilling from my eyes and racing down my cheeks like acid raindrops as I crash angry fists into my thighs, hatred welling up black and evil and vicious in my soul and I let it come, let myself taste the sharp bitter acridness of it on my tongue, feel it stinging in my eyes, hear it roaring in my ears, for next to apathy, hatred is one of the easiest emotions to produce. I let myself hate and hate and hate and it feels goddamned fucking GOOD as I turn that black hatred on the gun-wielding madman who has caused all of this horror for whatever sick and twisted reason; turn it on the innocent citizens lying dead around me who were stupid enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; turn it on my fellow crewmates and brothers for having the audacity to get themselves shot and killed; turn it on God for being so cruel and callous to the human suffering before Him; turn it on…on…_

Me.

_For being as worthless, shifty, and lazy as THEY said I was, useless to the core._

_For being unable to save anyone out here, patently failing like THEY predicted I would._

_For…_

For being left alive.

_And I realize then in the now-eerie silence that I am alone…_all alone_…and choking sobs well up and break violently free from my chest, escaping from my throat and flying free like startled birds, and I cannot remember a time in my life when I've ever wept harder…not in my childhood when I was ridiculed by THEM for being a half-breed, not when the first girl I ever thought I loved broke my heart into a million little pieces, not when my beloved Grandfather died…not…ever. "I'm so sorry," I whisper brokenly to the dead surrounding me, clasping my hands between my knees and rocking back and forth, trying to comfort myself like a child would. "I'm so, so sorry."_

_A shadow falls over me and startled, I twist around to see a man dressed all in black, a black mask covering his face, a rifle clutched in his gloved fingers. I can smell cordite and evil and death rolling off of him like a noxious cloud, and the eyes that are visible from beneath the mask are cold chips of blank obsidian as he stares at me. "You're nothing but a worthless, useless, good-for-nothing half-breed, John Gage," he mocks cruelly as he points the rifle at me._

_I narrow my eyes in defiance, tears still winking on my lashes as I stare down Death, because by God, I'll be DAMNED if I let him see that I'm afraid. "Who the hell are you?" I demand menacingly, belying my fear, belying the chills racing up and down my spine._

_Wordlessly he puts his fingers to the mask and slowly peels it off and I gasp in shock, for it's…it's…_

With a violent shudder, I draw myself out of my reverie of recalling last night's dream, forcing myself back into the present time, which is much more hellish and nightmarish than the dream was, for…

It's fucking _real._

Next to me, Roy gives me a concerned look, brows drawing together in a frown. "You okay?" he asks.

"Just peachy," I lie through my goddamned teeth and he doesn't press, for he knows the truth…neither of us is okay and it will take us a _long_ time to ever get back to being okay…if EVER. I fidget restlessly, glancing down at my watch, but not really needing to see how long we've been trapped in this…this _HELL, _'cuz seconds, minutes, hours, it doesn't matter, we've been stuck here for-fucking-_ever,_ the stink of cordite and blood and death thick in the dusty air around us. Oh yeah, the cops have arrived on scene and taken quick control, dispatching other squad cars to shut down the traffic in the area, leaving Adamson Avenue the Great Divide between _us_ and _them_, between safe haven and sheer black terror, and I've been keeping them carefully apprised of our situation via the HT, the only link bridging the gap between _there_ and _here_, in our own little No Man's Land.

_No Man's Land…_

My mouth twists in bitter irony as I suddenly think of Snoopy in the Sopwith Camel, the World War One flying ace doing battle with the Red Baron, his beloved doghouse-slash-airplane occasionally getting shot down over No Man's Land. And every time, Snoopy's lucky…

He gets to crawl to safety.

Because no one DIES in a goddamned comic strip.

But people are dying out _here…_in the park, in the street…in front of US, and we can't do a goddamned fucking thing about it, we're just as pinned in as they are by the sniper on the rooftop of the new Granite Court office building…an office building we just did the final safety inspection on last week, I might add. And the park across from us is new too, a lush gemstone of beauty that is designed to be the complementing focal point of the newly developed Granite Court area, the land carefully landscaped and manicured into blooming green loveliness, complete with playground equipment for the kiddies to entertain themselves on, while their parents or nannies sit on nearby picnic tables, lulled into complacency by the prettiness and the bubbling fountain near the park entrance. The park is separated from the street by a grey stone wall, and I don't need a comic book hero's X-ray vision to know that beyond that wall lies many frightened people…many wounded, many dead…the innocent victims of the sniper's self-proclaimed war, for in every war there are innocent victims, collateral damage in the quest for victory. We don't hear the gunshots as the sniper fires, he has a silencer on his rifle, but we hear the people in the park screaming for help, screaming in pain, screaming in fear…

And there's not a goddamned fucking thing we can DO about it. Roy and I have sat here helpless, unable to do anything but watch and listen as those around us are gunned down, as those around us _die_. And a painful reminder of that inability to help, to save someone…_anyone_…lies a few yards away from us, her body crumpled in an untidy heap of floral print and red blood and dead accusing eyes…eyes that seem to say, "Worthless, useless, good-for-nothing half-breed."

And I _hate_ it, I fucking HATE not being able to help, it goes against my grain, it goes against my training, it goes against my ethics, it goes against my sense of humanity.

Gritting my teeth, I drag my gaze away from the woman's dead body and I tip my head back against the wheel well of the squad for what feels like the thousandth time, staring up at the bright blue sky overhead that is dotted with white cotton clots of clouds that play harmlessly with the sun. The wind lifts lightly, caressing my sweat-dampened face, and I raise a gritty palm to swipe at my forehead, remembering for the thousandth time why I don't leave my head rested against the metal rim of the wheel well…it's too damned hot and makes my scalp itch. I frisk fingers through my hair, displacing the damp unruly strands with an easy ruffle, squirming against the trickle of sweat that rolls down my back between my shoulder blades. I cast a dark scowl up the street where the newly-minted command post is being set up, as if my glare can get the cops to work faster at getting us out of here.

"Stop fidgeting," Roy says. "The cops are working as fast as they can, Junior."

"Well, they need to work faster," I grouse sourly. "My ass is asleep." I shift my weight from butt cheek to butt cheek, trying to wake my numb posterior up.

"So's mine," he sighs pragmatically. "But whaddaya gonna do?"

My eyes fall on a little brown ant that is wandering aimlessly along one of the cracks in the sidewalk, searching here, searching there, hunting for something with a determined ant-purpose. I gesture to it. "I'm just a little worried…I mean, what if while my ass is asleep, an ant crawls up there and decides to build a city inside of my butt? I mean, surely that would NOT be good, right?"

"You know, only YOU would even think of something like that," he says a bit disdainfully, rolling his eyes dramatically.

"But theoretically it COULD happen, right?" I press.

"Well, if it _does_ happen, I'm sure Dr. Brackett would be more than happy to remove the ant from your ass and add it to the ever-growing list of 'weird things that have happened to John Gage'," he says. "And who knows, he might decide to write up a paper about it and submit it to the _New England Journal Of Medicine_. Then your ass would become famous, at least in medical circles, and maybe around here, too, who knows. People like reading about quirky crap like that."

"I'm not sure I appreciate you calling my ass 'quirky'," I remark.

"Would you rather I call it something more appropriate, like 'stinky'?" he asks.

"Um…no," I say. I draw in a breath, blowing it out in a sigh that lifts my damp bangs from my forehead. I draw my knees up to my chest, placing my helmet atop them, and I begin to drum my fingers on the helmet, tapping out the beat to 'Wipe Out' as I hum the Safaris tune underneath my breath, trying to keep myself from thinking of last night's nightmare and how it came true. The breeze shifts and brings with it the smell of sour vomit and I wrinkle my nose in mild disgust. "No offense, Roy, but I kinda wish you'd thrown up just a little bit farther away from here, 'cuz when the wind shifts, you can smell it."

"Would you rather I'd thrown up on you?" he asks darkly. "'Cuz I very well coulda, ya know."

"Oh yeah, I know, and believe me, I'm really grateful you aimed the other way," I assure him quickly. "I just wish you'd been just a bit further away, that's all." I don't tell him how seeing him get sick like that has shaken me, not because I'm squeamish, but because Roy DeSoto RARELY throws up at a scene, possessing a cast-iron stomach that refuses to rebel at even the goriest of accidents or fires. Of course, I know _why_ he threw up…the situation has likely tripped off some nasty-ass flashbacks to his service as a combat medic in Vietnam, plus I made the mistake of innocently asking if Joanne would bring Chris and Jenny to this particular park, a remark that I feel incredibly guilty for even uttering because...well, it made my best friend puke, and it's not nice to make one's friends throw up like that.

"I'm sorry, okay?" he says a bit sarcastically. "If I hafta barf again, I'll make sure to run out in the street, putting myself in the sniper's line of fire and risking getting shot, just so I don't offend your dainty sensibilities."

"My dainty sensibilities aren't offended," I tell him with an easy shrug. "I've been around puke and been puked on before, remember? Just last week we had that ten-year-old kid with a hot appy that threw up pizza on me, and it was pretty gross, all chunky and…"

"Johnny, _please!"_ he says hastily, squinching his eyes shut and turning another lovely shade of green. "Can we NOT talk about throwing up anymore?"

"Um, yeah, sure," I tell him quickly, nodding.

He draws in ragged breaths through his nose, his nostrils flaring with each intake…which I watch with abject fascination. He catches me staring at him. "Now what?" he scowls.

"Didja know that your nostrils flare when you breathe like that?" I helpfully point out.

"Yeah, so?" he challenges with narrowed eyes.

I shrug. "It looks like two tiny little train tunnels. I half-expect to see either the Rice-A-Roni trolley or Mr. Roger's trolley to the land of Make-Believe come shooting out of them."

He frowns a little, puzzled. "Mr. Rog…oh yeah, Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood."

"Well, yeah, _duh_, Roy," I tell him with a snort. "Do you know anyone else that has a trolley that goes to the land of Make-Believe?"

"Well, I'm beginning to believe your _brain_ goes to the land of Make-Believe," he scoffs.

"Of course it does," I tell him with a sly grin. "Where else can I find myself on a tropical beach somewhere, surrounded by several nubile young bathing beauties, all clamoring for me to put suntan lotion on them…"

"And they're all named Frank, Steve, Jerry, Dave…" he begins with an evil grin of his own.

"Hah, I hope the trolley to Make-Believe gets stuck in your fat little nostrils and Dr. Brackett has to take your nose off to remove it," I grouse. "Then he could write THAT up for the _New England Journal Of Medicine._" I lean forward a bit, using my fingers to pluck the sweat-soaked back of my uniform shirt and cotton t-shirt away from me, flapping the fabric a little to create a breeze. It helps briefly, but the second I release the material, it goes right back to sticking to me, the shade offered by the squad only minimally cooler than the sundrenched pavement across the way from us. I pick up the HT and fiddle with the antenna, running my fingers down the smooth metal that has been warmed by the sun before plucking at the leather strap, digging into it with my nails, leaving pale crescent marks of scars on it like little branding marks. Frowning in concentration, my tongue poking out of the corner of my mouth, I carefully gouge out my initials in the leather…J.R.G.

"Whaddaya doin'?" Roy asks curiously.

"Puttin' my mark on the HT," I tell him.

He shrugs wearily. "Better that than you peeing on it, I guess."

"Mmm…yeah, don't think Cap would be too happy if I did that," I mumble as I hold the strap out, gazing at my handiwork. The letters look lopsided and uneven, the 'J' looking like a backwards 'L', while the 'R' looks like a squared off 'K'. The 'G' is the only slightly normal looking letter, and I study them for a second before rubbing my thumb across them, scuffing the marks back into the leather, leaving only faint traces of them behind.

A monarch butterfly flutters before us, catching my eye, and I watch it dancing drunkenly in front of the grey stone wall that separates the park from the street, a bright splash of orange and black color swaying and swooping in intricate, if dizzy, arcs that probably make sense to the insect, but make little sense to me. I nudge Roy, pointing to it, and the two of us study the butterfly in awed silence, our eyes following it as it traces delicate patterns in its flight, lighting for a moment on one of the stones jutting out from the wall, the stained glass patterned wings folding and unfolding slowly, almost as if the insect is fanning itself. It rests there for a minute, then it takes off, lifting gracefully off of the stone and headed towards Roy and I. It weaves unsteadily in front of us, swooping low as if scoping us out, likely drawn by the bright blue of our uniform shirts or the red color of the rig. Hanging hesitantly in the air as if trying to decide to land on one of us, it flutters uncertainly for a moment before landing on my arm.

I stare at it in amazement, drinking in the beauty of the dainty orange and black wings..the thicker black band around the edges of the wing, along with the brighter orange tones tell me it's a female monarch. The white spots on her make her look as someone carefully polka-dotted her with a tiny little paintbrush, and her long slender insect body is a strip of black velvet. I hold my breath as she slowly begins to walk across my forearm, her wings folding and unfolding gently, her legs feather-light against my skin, her feelers stretching out with lazy indolence as if to tickle me, but I know she's likely just testing to see how sturdy of footing she has. She then flutters up, dancing lightly between the two of us before crossing over to Roy, settling onto his badge and resting there, her wings moving almost hypnotically as her feet delicately probe the sharply defined ridges of the metal badge.

"Don't move," I breathe quietly, fearful of scaring the butterfly off, the only beautiful thing among so much horror.

"I'm not," he responds back in an amazed whisper. thoroughly enchanted, we watch the monarch as she clings there to his badge, then she lifts off gracefully, dancing and flittering away in a woozy pattern of butterfly joy as if thoroughly pleased to have made our acquaintance. She heads back to the grey stone fence, wobbling in front of it for a second, then she swoops upward and over it in a firm little arc, disappearing from our sight. Roy looks over at me. "Whaddaya suppose that meant?" he asks, gesturing in the direction the butterfly disappeared to.

I rub fingers where the she rested on my forearm, my skin still remembering her light touch. "I dunno," I shrug.

"Isn't there any kind of Indian myths about monarchs?" he asks.

"What do I look like, a walking encyclopedia of information about Indians?" I snort a bit sarcastically.

"No, I just wondered if maybe you'd heard of any, that's all," he shrugs. "No need to get testy, Johnny, I meant no offense."

I think for a moment, feeling slightly guilty for sounding so snappish. "I'm sure there's others, but the only one I can think of offhand is an Aztec legend," I say. "They believe that the souls of their deceased warriors were reincarnated into monarch butterflies."

"Oh, that's…" he begins, but then the morbid meaning of what I just said dawns on _both_ of us and we exchange a goggle-eyed look, for we both know that beyond that stone wall and in the street in front of our truck lies the dead, and the butterfly landing on both of us seems like a cruelly obscene coincidence. Roy cuts his eyes away from mine, going pale once more. "That's pretty goddamned weird," he says grimly. "Not to mention fucking ironic, given our current circumstances."

"She meant no harm, I'm sure," I say softly, feeling the need to apologize for the butterfly and her actions.

"She?"

"The butterfly," I say, nodding in the direction of the stone fence. "She was likely attracted to the bright color of our shirts or the rescue rig, or the shine of your badge, that's all. She just came over to check us out."

"How'd you know it was a female?" he asks, a glimmer of curiosity flickering in his eyes.

"Tonto wise man," I intone solemnly in a fake Indian-style accent, holding my hand up in the rote Hollywood gesture of Indian greeting. "Know big heap about insects." When Roy snorts and shakes his head in mild amusement, I continue. "The black band around the edges of her wings were darker and thicker, that's how I could tell. The male monarch has a thinner and lighter band of black."

"Huh, interesting," he says, falling silent for a moment. Then he clears his throat with a cough and speaks again. "You buy into that myth?" he asks quietly. "I mean, about the butterfly being the souls of deceased Aztec warriors?"

I lift my shoulders in a soggy shrug, swiping a gritty palm across my sweaty forehead once more. "Maybe," I allow. "And sometimes a butterfly is just a butterfly, too."

"Yeah, but…" He pauses, chewing on his lower lip for a moment, then he gestures to the area around us with an open palm, his blue eyes worried. "I mean…this…it's just _weird_, ya know?"

"Yeah, I know," I say softly. "It's like the dream I had last night."

He looks over at me with a frown. "What dream?"

"It was…um…nothing," I backtrack hastily, realizing I've said too much.

"Johnny, WHAT dream?" he presses.

"Um…well, it's really kind of stupid…" My voice trails off as I pick nervously at a small hole in the knee of my uniform pants, digging a fingernail into the edges of frayed fabric, torn between wanting to tell Roy about the nightmare and unburden myself, versus keeping it to myself for fear of looking ridiculous. But I know that Roy will keep at me until I spill, so drawing in a deep breath, I begin, the words tumbling out of me in a rush. "I had a nightmare last night that I was in a situation just like this, with a sniper gunning people down. There were bodies everywhere. I ran from body to body, trying to find someone still alive, but everyone was dead. And then I spotted you and ran over to you, but the sniper shot you in the heart just as I reached you. And on the ground in front of you were the bodies of Cap, Marco, Mike and Chet…they were all dead, too. I was the _only one_ left alive and I felt so fucking helpless and guilty that I couldn't save anyone, not even my friends. As I was kneeling over you guys, trying to close your eyes for you, a shadow fell over me and it was the sniper. He was wearing a mask and he pointed the rifle at me, saying something I haven't heard since…" I pause, licking a sandpaper tongue across dry lips. "Well, for quite awhile, anyway."

"Which was?" Roy prods gently.

I fidget uneasily, my fingernail widening the hole in my pant leg. "He called me a worthless, useless, good-for-nothing half-breed," I say hesitantly. "Like they used to call me on the Rez, like they used to call me when I was training to be a firefighter. And when I demanded to know who he was, he lifted the mask off and it was…and it was…" My voice wanes again as I remember who was behind the mask, who was wielding the gun, who was the cold-blooded murderer of so many innocent victims.

"Go on," he urges softly. "Who was the man in your dream?"

"It was me," I whisper miserably. "I was the one who'd pulled the trigger on all those people, on my friends…it was _me,_ Roy, _me._"

He falls silent for a moment, digesting what I've told him, then he speaks again. "It was just a dream, Johnny, and nothing more than that."

"Yeah, but look…here we sit, pinned in by a sniper, with the dead and injured all around us, with us unable to help any of them, and I can't help but hear the echoes of that line…I'm a worthless, useless, good-for-nothing half…"

"No, you're NOT," he says sharply, eyes swinging around to glare at me. "You are NOT that, Johnny, you never HAVE been and you never WILL be, so get that out of your goddamned head right now."

"I got so _sick_ of hearing it…from my teachers, from my peers, from my elders, from my fellow firefighters," I say softly, twirling a piece of dark blue thread from my pants between my fingers. "I thought I'd escaped it, I thought I'd quit dreaming it, I thought I'd finally proved to them and myself that I wasn't that _at all_ when I became a firefighter first, then a paramedic. I thought I'd left that epithet in the dust of my past. Yet it returned last night to haunt me." I gesture with a palm to the park and the street beyond. "And now…now the dream has come true…I can't save the people out there that are counting on me to help them…THEY were right…I'm nothing more than a worthless, useless, good-for-nothing…"

"NO, you're NOT," he repeats again sharply, grabbing me by the shoulder and shaking me a little for emphasis. "Johnny, you're NOT what those assholes said you were, you never HAVE been. Christ Almighty, for as long as I've known you, you've _never_ backed down from a challenge, you've _never_ been afraid to face anything that's been thrown at you, you've _always_ been there for those that have needed you. I don't give a shit _what_ those people told you back then, or even what your dream said…you are NOT, and I repeat, you are NOT a worthless, useless, good-for-nothing half-breed, do you understand me? And NONE of us, not even Chet with his occasional Archie Bunker mentality even THINKS that of you, got that?"

"Yes, but…" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"No, there's no 'yes, but' here," he says firmly, eyes flashing defiance at me, daring me to dispute him. "This is a circumstance that is beyond our control…we can't get out there and help those people until we get helped ourselves. The rescuers have to be rescued first, it's as simple as that. Once we get out of here, we can go to work saving people, but until we're pulled out, we're as helpless as those that are in the street or in the park, and believe me, those people out there GET that, too. They understand WHY we're not able to get to them right away."

"Yeah, I know, but it sure as hell doesn't make it any easier to swallow," I say bitterly.

"I know it doesn't, Junior, but them's the cards we're dealt right now, we can only play our hand the best that we can for the time being," Roy says with a grim smile.

I manage to work up a shaky grin of my own as I think of one thing he said just a moment ago. "Huh, Chet may have Archie Bunker's mentality, but he looks like Meathead."

"Yeah, it's the 'stache," Roy tells me, then we both settle back into silence for a few moments before I speak again.

"You think we're gonna get outta here alive?" I ask cautiously.

Unease flickers in his eyes as he considers my question. "Yeah, I think we will."

"You don't sound so sure, though," I probe.

He hesitates, thinking, chewing on his lower lip as he does. "I hafta believe that we'll get out of this alive," he says finally. "I mean, I'm refusing to let myself think otherwise."

"Yeah, but…"

"Johnny, please," he pleads. "Let me have that little shred of hope to cling to, okay? It's all that I have right now, it's the only thing keeping me sane at this point, the thought that I'll get out of here alive and unharmed and I'll be able to go home to Joanne and the kids when this is all over with."

"If it's ever all over with," I add dubiously.

He gives me a sour look. "Do you MIND, little Johnny Sunshine?"

"Sorry," I say. "I'm just making sure to cover all the angles, that's all." I scratch my fingers through my hair once more. "How d'ya think they're gonna get us all outta here?" I ask.

Roy shrugs. "Some kinda armored rig, I suppose."

"You think they'll let us assist in the rescue ops?"

He thinks on it for a second, then shakes his head. "I doubt it, it's too risky. They'll likely utilize the SWAT team to run the rescues while we assist in the triage area." He glances over at me with a small dubious frown. "Why?"

I rub my chin thoughtfully. "Well, ya know, I was thinkin' maybe if they'd let me, I'd put on a bulletproof vest and help 'em out as they run the rescues. I mean, surely they'll need all the help they can get, and I can do quick field assessments…"

"Johnny, they're not gonna let you do that," he says, shaking his head again. "It's too goddamned dangerous."

"Yeah, but that's what we're trained to do, isn't it?" I press. "Going into dangerous situations like that and getting people out, right?"

"In fires and accidents, yes," he says. "But this isn't a fire or a multiple MVA, Johnny, this is a madman with a gun that is shooting at anything that moves. We're not trained, nor are we equipped to handle this kind of situation. And while your intentions are noble and all, and I get where you're coming from, I think it's best that we leave the actual rescue operations to the cops and focus on the patients that they bring out."

"You mean to tell me you wouldn't strap on a bulletproof vest and go in there to help those people?" I ask.

"No," he says.

"Why not?" I ask. "I mean, I thought all firefighters were willing to risk their lives to help people, no matter what. It's all part of that 'hero' myth about us."

"I don't need to be a hero, I just need to be alive." He rubs wearily at his forehead. "Look, I put my life on the line as it is with fires and accidents and the other weird, myriad situations we face on a daily basis, risking making my wife a widow and my kids fatherless…so as much as I hate to say it, no, I would not put on a bulletproof vest and wade into that battlefield, just to be some sort of a mythical hero. If I were single and had no kids, then yeah, I'd consider it, but I have a family that is depending on me and so…"

"Say no more," I interrupt, holding up my hand. "I get it, Roy, and I don't blame you. But I'm not married and I have no one depending on me, so maybe if I pour on the Gage charm, I can convince 'em to let me accompany them into the battlefield."

He looks askance at me, clucking his tongue in that mother-henish way he has. "Johnny, they're not gonna let you ride in with them…this is an ongoing crime scene and it falls under the purview of the police, not the fire department. They'll be the ones to handle getting the people outta here, while we'll be the ones dealing with triage. And you might as well resign yourself to that too, that you don't get to be the hero this time out." Folding his arms across his chest, he settles back against the rig with a heavy sigh, falling silent once more.

"I don't wanna be a hero," I mumble. "I just wanna help save lives like I'm trained to do." Edgy and restless again…wanting to be in motion, wanting to DO something, damn it…I pull my legs up to my chest, resting my chin atop them for a moment, then I straighten them back down and run a hand through my hair. Then I cross my ankles, uncrossing them a few moments later and recrossing them the other way. I pick up my helmet, the hard black plastic warmed by the sun, and I run it around in my hands, tapping on it with my fingernails, swinging it from the leather strap.

"Stop fidgeting, you're makin' me nervous," Roy sighs, resting his head back against the metal side of the truck and closing his eyes.

"I gotta do somethin'," I complain. "I'm goin' nuts just sitting here."

"Try counting sheep," he suggests.

"That's to go to sleep, Roy," I scoff. "Do I LOOK like I'm ready to go to sleep?" I poke him in the shoulder. "Hey, wanna play…"

"No," he interrupts with a wave of his hand, his eyes still closed. "I do not."

"Man, you didn't even give me a cha…"

He opens one eye to give me a dark look. "I don't hafta give you a chance, I know you're gonna suggest some stupid game to play while we wait to be rescued. And no offense, Johnny, but I'd kind of like some peace and quiet right now, 'cuz you know that once we get outta here, it's gonna be pandemonium and chaos."

I give him a sour look. "Ya know, maybe I'm wishing that it WAS Chet that I'm trapped here with instead of you. At least Chet…"

"If it were Chet, you'd have strangled him with your stethoscope and he'd have shoved the biophone up your ass by now," Roy remarks dryly.

"Well, at least if I had the biophone shoved up there, the ant that's already up there could talk to Brackett in person, right?" I ask, but Roy ignores my stab at humor. I pluck at the strap of my helmet, running the metal buckle up and down the buttery leather with a soft little '_zzshing'_ sound. I flip the helmet over, looking at the various scars and dents that mar the thick shiny plastic, the battle scars of the wars I've waged while on the job. Then, in a flash of memory, an old Saturday morning cartoon comes to me and I allow myself a small grin as I think about the cartoon and how it always makes me laugh. I steal a glance over at Roy, whose eyes are still closed, and I clutch the helmet to my chest, drawing in a deep breath and clearing my throat loud enough to make Roy open his eyes and look at me. Deadpan, I throw my hand out, fingers tight on the rim of my helmet as I waggle it in my grip and begin to sing. "Hello mah baby, hello mah honey, hello mah ragtime gal…" I warble in approximate imitation of the singing bullfrog from the Warner Brothers LooneyTune cartoon.

Roy stares at me with a mixture of astonishment and dismay. "What the hell?" he asks warily. "Have you gone NUTS?"

"Not nuts," I reassure him. "Just slightly crazy, that's all." I poke him in the shoulder. "Hey, what was the name of that singing frog anyway?" I ask. "Remember it? The guy that found him learned that he could sing and so he shopped the frog around to talent agencies, thinking it would be the next great thing, but when he'd open the box to show off the frog, all it'd do was sit there and go 'ribbit'. Then the minute he got it out of sight of the talent scouts, it'd start singing again? What was the frog's name...something Frog, wasn't it?"

"I can't remem…" he begins, but there is the sudden sound of panicked screaming coming from the park, indicating that the sniper has opened fire on people again.

"Sonofabitch!" I hiss as Roy and I trade dismayed looks, and that's IT, I've HAD it with all this goddamned sitting here like mute little monkeys, the power to help these people within our abilities, yet we're pinned in here and rendered helpless by our own human frailties and fears, and wild mindless rage flows white-hot into my veins, pounding in my head like molten lava, boiling black in my gut as the wheels in my mind churn rapidly…_I'm fast, hell, they didn't call me the Galloping Greyhound for nothing, plus I've got my lucky green pen, so if I could just make it to the park entrance, I'm sure there's stuff in the park that I could use for cover…_and then…

Then blind determination and vicious anger and stubborn willpower drives me to my feet, my fingers grabbing up my helmet and plopping it on my head as I lurch upward, wobbling unsteadily as my legs try to orient themselves with the foreign process of standing up and walking.

And just as quick, Roy is on his feet too, grabbing hold of me and slamming me back against the rig. "What the hell do you think you're DOING?" he screams in my face, his eyes bulging madly. "Are you fucking INSANE or something? You wanna get your damn fool head blown off?"

"But we hafta do SOMETHING!" I shriek back at him in frustration. "Leggo of me, damn it!" I squirm wildly in his grasp, dancing up and down as I try to free myself from his digging fingers. "I'm fast as hell and I've got my lucky green pen, so I think I can…"

And just like _that,_ his hand comes out of nowhere and _slaps_ me…not hard, but hard enough to stun me for a moment, my own hand flying up to my stinging cheek as I stare at him in shock. "Fast or no, you _cannot_ outrun a bullet, you stupid fool!" he growls, gripping me by the shoulders and shaking me, making my teeth rattle in my head. "And that pen…it's nothing more than just a goddamned green pen that you've attached some stupid-ass symbolism to as a good luck charm. It WON'T save you out there, Johnny, TRUST ME!"

I turn then on my partner and best friend in a whipping tornado of fury. "Goddamnit, I'm getting sick and tired of this fucking waiting game, Roy!" I yell at him. "We're paramedics, we're supposed to be out there _helping_ those people, not sitting here on our dead asses, twiddling our thumbs while the goddamned cops poke-ass along, trying to formulate a rescue plan! We're trained to save lives, not watch people die in front of us, damn it!"

"Don't you think I feel the same way?" he snaps at me, his face flushing as red as the squad. "You think I like sitting here on my ass while innocent people are getting shot, and I can't do a goddamned thing to save them? But what good are we to those people if we're dead, huh? We're not gonna be helping anyone if we race headlong into his line of fire and get ourselves killed, you realize that, don't you? A dead paramedic isn't gonna be helping _anyone, _Johnny."

I flick my gaze away from him, knowing he speaks the cold hard truth but unwilling to admit it, my eyes landing on the dead woman lying a few feet away from us, the blood on her blouse already drying to a dark maroon and I crumple then, sliding down the metal of the squad and sitting down hard on my ass, the adrenaline and the rage rushing from my body as fast as it came on, leaving me hollow and weak and feeling sick.

"You okay?" he asks, kneeling down next to me, concern now replacing the anger on his face.

I don't answer him, my palm rubbing my still-stinging cheek as I stare vacantly at the grey stone fence in front of us.

"Johnny, I'm sorry I slapped you," he says softly, apologetically. "Believe me, I really am." He puts a hand on my shoulder. "But I had no choice…you were ready to rush into certain death and I wasn't gonna let that happen."

Mutely I shrug. "I know, and I'm not mad that you slapped me, Roy," I tell him, my voice sounding oddly echo-y in my mind.

He eyes me with a wary frown. "Yeah, well, you don't _look_ like you're not mad."

I turn haunted eyes on him then. "You know what they're gonna find out there when they get the rescue ops underway, don't you?" I ask softly, gesturing to the park and beyond with a sweep of my hand. He doesn't answer me, he just studies me with a knowing gaze. "There's gonna be a lot of death out there, Roy," I continue quietly. "And how many of those deaths could we have prevented if we'd acted on our instincts and gone in…"

He shakes his head. "No, I'm not gonna let you think that way, Junior, I'm not gonna let you blame either of us for any of those deaths out there in the battlefield today…we _both_ know that there's _nothing_ that can be done right now to help those people. We're stuck waiting to be rescued just as much as they are."

I sigh in weary acquiescence, knowing full well that he's right. "Yeah, but it doesn't make it any easier to take, Roy."

"It's not supposed to, Junior," he says with a grim little smile before settling back in next to me. We lapse into silence once more, each of us thinking our own thoughts, and what his are, I can't say, but I know what mine are. After a couple of minutes, he clears his throat and speaks. "Michigan J. Frog," he says.

I give him a puzzled frown. "Huh?"

"You know…" He picks up his helmet and clutches it to his chest for a moment, drawing in a deep breath before bursting into song. "Hello mah baby, hello mah honey, hello mah ragtime gal," he warbles perfectly. Slapping his helmet onto his head with a silly grin, he nudges me. "The singing frog, remember? He was called Michigan J. Frog."

"Yeah, you're right," I say, nodding, a grin creeping across my face…but it's not because Roy remembered the name of the bullfrog or anything like that.

No.

It's because I have a plan, one I'm determined to implement just as soon as I can, because I need to _prove_ something...

That I'm not a worthless, useless, good-for-nothing half-breed.

Yes, I need to prove that to myself and I WILL...

_Come hell or high water. _


End file.
